Yesterday I woke up motivated. It felt weird to want to be productive in a way that doesn't involve re-watching the first two seasons of Downton Abbey, but I decided to act on the feeling. I showered, put on non-frumpy clothes (and a necklace, people!), vacuumed, emptied and washed the vacuum canister (sick), vacuumed again, un-decorated the Christmas tree (learning some valuable lessons about light placement that I'll use next year; I also found one of Graham's shoes that had gone missing), hauled said retired Christmas tree to the curb while Graham sobbed the saddest tears of his life, swept up Graham's body weight in pine needles, went grocery shopping, made maple-glazed salmon for dinner, did the dishes, packaged three nativities, took care of some paperwork, and then re-watched the final episode of Downton Abbey season two in preparation for the upcoming season three. I think I even brushed my teeth somewhere in there.
|What's Downton Abbey to polishing aluminum? Daisy the kitchen maid has nothing on me!|
What's happening to me? I thought. First explanation: first trimester exhaustion/illness puts me in a semi-depressed funk that I'm finally free of. The contrast makes my behavior seem more radical than it really is. Hmm, this is likely, but not assuredly, as my regular, non-pregnant self isn't that great at getting chores done either.
|Is this the face of a woman who loves to clean? No, it's the face of a truck driver. Side note: I've been trying to teach Graham to say "zit," but so far all he can manage is "bah."|
Second explanation: nesting. Ahh, that one beautiful pregnancy symptom: the desire to clean, organize, and generally be domestic ... all while loving every minute. This explanation is more feasible, which leads me to one of modern womankind's deepest questions:
Why has the nesting urge not been captured in chemical form?
If it happens while I'm pregnant, it must be chemically-induced, right? Then how come I can't take synthetic nesting hormone to finally work up the motivation to clean the grit in my window tracks? Do you realize how amazing that would be? A pill that makes you an exceptional housewife? I don't care how feminist you are, that would be awesome.
Nathan pointed out that such a drug could come with other pregnancy-related side effects. I replied that I would gladly throw up in the morning if it meant the rest of my day was so productive.
What would it be called? "June Cleaver's Magic Potion"? "Domestizon" ( across between "domestic" and "amazon," naturally)? "Nest-ZING!"?
Sign me up for the human trials.
|Graham and his best friend, in better days.|
P.S. I saw Les Miserables. I don't like that they sang their conversations. I like my musicals Sound of Music style, where they talk normally and establish themselves as normal people before bursting into song. But it's like the songs are intentional and not just thrust upon the characters as a requirement of the genre. Maria sings because she wants to sing.
Are you one of those weirdies who breaks into random song in public? Often with like-minded friends or family? I bet you loved Les Mis. You might think you're just as awesome as Maria and therefore deserve to dominate communal sound waves. You probably think everyone around you is exulting in your voice, your boldness, your songbird-like innocence and joy in melody. They aren't.